


A bit of perchlorate

by Peruse



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Drinking, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:11:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11857869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peruse/pseuds/Peruse
Summary: Sometimes with war, it was easy to forget Cybertron was once home.Ratchet being melancholy with a special guest.





	A bit of perchlorate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parallelpie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=parallelpie).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY PIE! I'm garbage at smut, so have some platonic Ratchet/Shockwave. Maybe.

Sometimes, if he looked hard, Ratchet could imagine that he could see Cybertron. The logical part of him knew that wasn’t true, the planet was millions of light-years away and enough time had passed that even the war had caught up to Earth; there would be no lights to even see. Beyond that, even with his optics, the farthest out he could see was Jupiter.

It didn’t matter, not really, Cybertron wasn’t exactly home anymore. Polyhex was gone, his clinic was gone; Praxis raged to the ground; Iacon, the once shining beacon, destroyed. Vos, Tarn, Helix, even the Rust Seas were drained. The home that Ratchet remembered was long gone, replaced with an old ship that housed too-few many mechs in too-few space. But that was Cybertron at its core now, wasn’t it? No home, too little mechs, and poisoned and lost.

Maybe he had too much high grade, maybe not enough. Either way, Ratchet took a swig and stared out at Earth’s stars.

Some part of his mind would like to say that it was quiet, a perfect mood for contemplation, but that would be a lie. Earth was never quiet, not in the way Cybertron was. Nocturnal animals were running about, his sensors could detect and hear a plane flying above his head, and the leaves from nearby trees were making an irritating rustle. He wasn’t Beachcomber or Hound, he didn’t find the sounds soothing or wonderful, Earth was dirty, primitive, and made even his most archaic machines look advanced.

Even lost in his musings, Ratchet still heard the sound of a mech approaching. The steps were solid, steady, and paced, heavy too. It wasn’t a mini-bot or a cassette. Ratchet found that he really didn’t care who it was and took another sip. The footsteps stopped approximately 4 yards away.

“Autobot.” Him.

Great, another mistake. This time on a more personal level; it wasn't one that lead to the destruction of their planet. It was far worse than that at this point. 

Ratchet didn’t turn around.

“Shockwave.”

The footsteps resumed and Ratchet counted 2 yards before they stopped.

“You are alone.” Ratchet rolled his optics and took a swig. Shockwave was an aft. Ratchet didn’t like dealing with the logic-based types, they caused too many helmaches, too logical except where it mattered and garbage at personal relations and communication. Though personally, the medic felt like they did it for dramatic tension, maybe to sound smarter or more ominous. Pretentious fraggers.

“No slag.”

If Shockwave was going to be difficult, so was Ratchet. He wasn’t on shift –a lie, he hasn’t been off shift in half a million vorns-, and wasn't obligated to be cordial. The Decepticon didn’t respond and walked closer, when Ratchet could detect him with his field, he stopped. 

Ratchet stayed quiet and watched the stars. He could see a primitive, it all was, satellite coast by and for some reason thought of Florim; a mini-bot surgical assistant in the Academy. A small femme with a cheery demeanor and an utter lack of temper that always made her stand out. Ratchet finished his cube and didn’t think about what ever happened to her.

He flicked away the cube, optics not wavering. It was silent for another minute until a cube was placed down next to him. Ratchet took it. Sweet with acid, non-harmful. He didn’t say anything, but waved his right servo.

Shockwave sat down next to him. Neither of them said a word as Ratchet looked at the stars and Shockwave did whatever. He didn’t make a quip on the medic not giving thanks and didn’t try to start conversation. It was almost nice. Despite that, Ratchet spoke.

“I still find you fragging insufferable.”

“Noted.”

Ratchet heard the sound of a subspace compartment opening. Silencers, a used to be courtesy, were a thing of the past, not enough room for them and not enough time to fix the delicate parts. He knew Jazz’s was worth its weight 100 fold in credits. Probably more. Even in its haphazard, repaired, and modified state where even Ratchet didn’t know how to fix it or how it even worked.

The energon was sweet, a different brew than the Autobot’s favored mixes. He was sure that Shockwave was as sick of it as Ratchet was of his own tart brews. Too bad his subspace was empty, he could almost imagine sharing in a fit of reciprocity.

A memory of flat energon flittered across his mind, an overly sweet brew that sparklings and younger mechs liked; it was normally used for holidays and celebrations. The part of his processor that had the taste logged had corrupted with pain and time, he couldn’t remember the name of the brand or how it felt on his glossa. Ratchet drained half of his cube.

“It’s sweet.” He didn’t mean to say it out loud, he didn’t want to say anything aloud. It was too late to take it back and pretend he hadn’t, even with Earth’s noise.

“It’s the perchlorate. The water near the Nemisis is filled with it. It has become a common mix.” Ratchet’s optics moved from the sky to his cube. The color looked normal enough, but he could see beads of something mixed in, giving it a slight iridescent glow when he moved the cube.

“Huh. Most of us use lead and carbon, it’s common near our base. It gives a more tart flavor; a bit thicker.” It used to be described as sludge or melted rubber, but the lack of options created an almost fondness. Personally, Ratchet felt that the perchlorate brew was almost too light on his glossa and slid down his throat a bit too easily.

“Perhaps we will try that in the future.” Noncommittal and almost idly threatening. Classic Shockwave. Ratchet snorted into his drink and could almost see purple in the corner of his optics.

He never really did look at Shockwave, not when they were having this…thing. It made it less real, less like he was betraying the trust of his faction. Whatever he had with Shockwave, the quiet contemplation or, rarely, the passionate, emotionless interface wasn’t something that Ratchet shared; could share. He didn’t know what Shockwave got out of it. Frag, Ratchet didn’t know what he got out of it, couldn’t put a name to it if he was forced. Companionship was too friendly and frag-buddy wasn’t true enough. Maybe two old rusted bots being melancholy. Ratchet didn’t let it bother him as he took another sip.

“Don’t add Cyanide, with the Lead, it turns sour.” Not like they didn’t drink it, Ratchet had determined it didn’t harm their systems enough to purge needed energon.

“Understood, for the seekers only then.” Ratchet huffed with an almost grin into his cube and didn’t comment on the possible joke.

“If you want to make it real bad, add in some Magnesium.” Ratchet offered.

“Of course not, I would never do so. It would be a waste of resources.” Shockwave responded. His voice was numb, it always was, but he was garbage at hiding his field, likely due to 4 million years alone, and it spoke of humor and something unknown.

Ratchet didn't think of what it could be and went back to the stars; enjoying the odd companionship.


End file.
